


Domino

by derwentian



Category: Half-Life
Genre: M/M, Tommy Has Powers, bubby and coomer are also here but don't actually say anything, rated t for cussing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-23
Updated: 2020-07-23
Packaged: 2021-03-05 04:53:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,818
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25458844
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/derwentian/pseuds/derwentian
Summary: Tommy contemplates the situation. Gordon provides some perspective.
Relationships: Tommy Coolatta/Gordon Freeman
Comments: 7
Kudos: 127





	Domino

It’s depressing to think about how horribly, irreparably fucked this whole situation is, so Tommy doesn’t. Ignoring the problem won’t make it go away, but there’s nothing to be gained from stressing over circumstances beyond his control. And this  _ is _ beyond his control, as much as he hates to admit it. 

His father’s been flitting around, but it doesn’t really feel like  _ he’s _ holding the reins on this disaster either. He’s mostly just… observing. From just around the corner or just beyond a locked door at first, until Gordon caught him one too many times and confronted him directly in the Wikipedia Room.  _ That _ was an interesting exchange to overhear, and then pretend he didn’t hear.

They haven’t seen his father since, but Tommy can tell he’s nearby. There’s a vague sense of proximity—like when someone stands too close on public transit—and if he were to  _ look, _ he would probably spot a familiar silhouette lurking just beyond the boundaries of physical space to keep an eye on things. It’s better for everyone this way, Tommy figures. Weird men in suits snooping around stresses Gordon out, and weird nosy mortals paying too much attention stresses his father out. This way they won’t pester each other.

Still, the fact that his father’s aware of what’s happening is somehow less comforting than he’d expect. Tommy’s pretty sure he didn’t orchestrate this mess. This level of chaos and senseless destruction isn’t his style. But the fact that he’s not making any effort to intervene is troubling. It implies that this is  _ supposed _ to happen, or  _ has _ to happen, for whatever reason. That the resonance cascade is a non-negotiable piece in some in-progress series of events. A middle step in the causative waltz. 

Tommy understands, of course—he’s well familiar with the fact that a domino has to fall so it can knock down its neighbor—but he would be a lot more comfortable if he knew the big picture. He’s never done well with uncertainty. If his father knows more, he’s not sharing, which probably means Tommy  _ can’t _ know. He’s familiar with that too; it can be tempting to subvert fate if you don’t like the stated outcome, but it usually causes more problems than it solves. Some ships are doomed to sink no matter how many people go back in time to stop it. 

Still, the implication that he’d dislike impending future events enough to potentially defy them if he knew what to expect is also  _ very worrying, _ so he’s going to operate under the assumption that not even his father knows what’s happening and they’re all just along for the ride. For the sake of his nerves.

That said, it’s increasingly tempting to slip away from the group and cast off into that between-space for a quick family chat. To ask how this mess is going to end, or whether his friends are going to make it out, or even what part Tommy is supposed to be playing in all this. Even if he didn’t get any answers, he might get one of his father’s classic vaguely-worded reassurances. Those usually make him feel better, even if they don’t really mean anything despite how well the individual words fit together.

Before he can contemplate the matter further, there’s a more immediate sense of proximity—something is about to touch him, and it would probably be good to know what it is. Begrudgingly, Tommy drags himself out of his own head. It takes a moment to reconcile himself with his surroundings after such deep contemplation; by the time he’s fully returned to reality, contact has been made.

It turns out to be Gordon, kneeling in front of Tommy where he’d sat himself down in the corner of whatever nondescript little room the group had chosen for break time. He’s put his hand on Tommy’s shoulder—his  _ left _ hand, Tommy notes bitterly—and he’s saying something. Presumably to Tommy. He blinks, tries to will himself into hearing words and sentences instead of senseless noise.

“Oh, there you are,” Gordon says, which is a weird thing to say to someone you’re already talking to. He doesn’t remove his hand. “Are you good, Tommy? You seem kinda out of it.”

There’s no easy way to answer that question honestly, so he doesn’t. “I’m fine, Mr. Freeman. I was just thinking.”

Gordon snorts in that pleasant way he often does. “Must’ve been a pretty big think. You haven’t moved at all in, like, twenty minutes.” It didn’t feel that long. ...How would Gordon know, anyway? Has he been watching? “Are you sure you’re alright, bud? I know this is all kind of a lot to deal with.”

Spilling his guts probably wouldn’t make either of them feel better, but he  _ does _ want to get his point across somehow. As always, Gordon waits patiently while he strings his words together. “I’m sorry, Mr. Freeman. About all of this.” He can’t help the way his gaze wanders to where Gordon’s right hand is supposed to be. Maybe his father was right not to warn him; if he’d known  _ that _ was going to happen, who knows what he might have done.

“You don’t have to apologize,” Gordon sighs more than says. His hand still hasn’t left Tommy’s shoulder. “It’s not your fault.  _ You _ didn’t maim me.” He aims a halfhearted glare across the room toward where Bubby and Coomer are seated, but it doesn’t land; they’re busy messing with a cootie-catcher Coomer’s fashioned out of printer paper and stolen highlighters. “Besides, you couldn’t have known that was gonna happen.”

That’s not even remotely as reassuring as Gordon intended it to be. More like salt in the wound, all things considered. He tries not to let it show on his face, but he’s never been particularly good at regulating that kind of thing. “Well… yeah. But still. None of this should be happening.” Or maybe it should. The fact that he can’t know for sure is maddening.

“Fair enough! I can’t stand this shit either, man.” Gordon’s grip on his shoulder turns into something more like the comforting squeeze his father is fond of deploying. “But listen. I meant what I said earlier when we were fucking with those triangles.”

“That I got hired because of my shape recognition skills?”

Gordon’s surprised bark of laughter makes him feel a little bit better. “No, not that.” He pauses, lets the humor of the moment pass so that whatever he’s about to say next is appropriately serious. “The part that I meant was that I trust you. A whole fucking lot, actually. Like, I would have straight up died earlier if you weren’t there. Those clones would have  _ got _ my ass. But thanks to you, they didn’t.” Another pause, a tiny sigh. “I trust you with my  _ life, _ at this point.”

Tommy’s not used to this kind of attention; it’s tempting to look away, to take the edge off the painfully sincere look on Gordon’s face, but he resists the urge. “Um… wow.” How’s he supposed to respond to that? He’s always had trouble phrasing what he wants to say, but Gordon seems to leave him tongue-tied more often than most people he talks to. “I trust you too, Mr. Freeman. You’re—you’ve helped me a lot, too.” In different ways. Mostly by being the only person here who isn’t absolutely insane. A single point of relative normalcy in all this mess.

Just saying  _ that _ doesn’t really feel like enough, but before he can think of another response, Gordon gives his shoulder another squeeze and stands with a groan. “Fuck, I’m starving all of a sudden. I think I remember seeing some good stuff in that busted-up vending machine down the hall. You want anything?”

He’s not really hungry, but he also has a feeling that this isn’t really about vending machine snacks. This is Gordon trying to help, in his own small way. “Anything that doesn’t have cockroaches in it is good.”

Gordon laughs that laugh again. “Got it. Bug-free snacks, coming up.” And with that, he wanders off to go looting. A second later, Tommy realizes that he didn’t ask Coomer and Bubby if they wanted anything. This is apparently a private thing, just for them.

He’ll be gone for a few minutes, though, and Tommy’s worries from earlier are still weighing heavy on his mind. After a moment or two of internal debate, Tommy closes his eyes and turns his awareness toward the empty space beyond these walls. Even if he doesn’t get answers, he can at least say hi.

“Hello, Thomas,” his father says immediately. His tone is even, but not unkind.

“Hi, dad.” 

“Well. Did you just want to say hello? Or… perhaps you have… questions.” It’s odd to communicate like this, but he can imagine the way his father’s head tilts by a fraction of an inch on the last bit. “I’m afraid… I cannot answer them.” That’s about what he expected. “But. I  _ can _ say, that you and your friends… are doing very well, so far.”

“Are you sure? It kind of feels like we’re just fucking everything up.”

The ghost of a laugh. “That’s… part of life, Thomas. Things will work out. Follow your instincts.”

“They—my instincts mostly tell me to shoot things.”

“Yes. That has, served you rather well, so far.” He pauses, as though debating how much to divulge. “You’ll be alright.”

Tommy very badly wants to ask whether that’s a plural or singular ‘you’, but he knows he probably won’t get an answer. This is already more than he was expecting, really. “Thanks. We’re doing our best.” Some of them are, anyway.

“Indeed. Now then. You should go, Thomas. I believe your… associate, has  _ located _ the  _ Cheez-Its®." _

“Okay. Thanks for the advice, dad.” He doesn’t really know more than he did before, but he  _ does _ feel better. His father’s good at that. 

When Tommy opens his eyes, the room is the same as it was before, except Gordon is attempting to creep past Bubby and Coomer without them noticing his armful of junk food. Luckily, they’re still busy telling each other’s fortunes or whatever it is you do with cootie-catchers. “Alright,” Gordon says as he plops down cross-legged in front of Tommy, “I found pretzels, cheezits, and those little orange cracker things with the peanut butter in the middle. Pick your poison, bud.”

“Cheez-Its®, please.”

Gordon blinks, then hands over the tiny snack bag of crackers. It’s only a little bit dusty. “And I’ll take the little sandwich thingies, so—” he turns at the waist and chucks the little bag of pretzels at Bubby; Coomer snatches it out of the air faster than is humanly possible, then winks. “Snack time, fellas. Cheers!” He lifts his sandwich crackers skyward, and Tommy taps his bag of Cheez-Its® against it like they’re clinking wine glasses. Maybe they’ll be alright after all.

**Author's Note:**

> no benrey in this fic. society has progressed past the need for benrey
> 
> Comments and feedback are appreciated!


End file.
